


in the shadows, there lies a rot

by tsarist



Series: godspeed and good faith [1]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: BAMF Percy Jackson, Blood Bending, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Magic, Not Canon Compliant - The Blood of Olympus (Heroes of Olympus), Past Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson, Post-Tartarus (Percy Jackson), Slow Burn, Strong Female Characters, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:34:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24309046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsarist/pseuds/tsarist
Summary: Facing the end of all things, Nico stares into the abyss, where no foot has ever tread, and listens.And who,it asks,is worthy of this task?So Nico chooses.Percy Jackson learned to hit the ground running. It’s too bad that now, he can never stop.
Relationships: Annabeth Chase & Percy Jackson, Nico di Angelo & Percy Jackson, Nico di Angelo/Percy Jackson, Percy Jackson & Hazel Levesque
Series: godspeed and good faith [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1754911
Comments: 16
Kudos: 103





	in the shadows, there lies a rot

PROLOGUE

In the end, it comes down to one question: how do you kill a god? 

And the answer, for there really is only one, is you can’t. At least, no one has ever managed to do so and live to tell the tale. The gods are only so forthcoming, even in the face of their imminent deposition. It wouldn’t do to give that power to their children. If the titans consume the primordials and the gods consume the titans, would it come to anyone’s surprise that the demigods would do the same? Well, no one knows. It’s never happened successfully. 

It’s because of this that Nico allows himself to hold a grudge against the gods. If nothing else, he lets the anger fuel him.

Even before the end, he had been on his own for a long time. A self-imposed exile, he knows, but while he’s been lonely, it’s given him invaluable gifts in return: secrets. Unseen, he can peek at what lies on the shadow paths he travels on, and while there isn’t often a lot to see, and it’s hard to with how instantaneous the moment of travel passes, sometimes, it feels like the fates are whispering in his ear. It’s almost fun, in a dangerous sort of way. Roulette with the devil, a bet on how close he is willing to stray to catch a glimpse, what he is willing to risk.

He knows what shadows are friendly, which ones aren’t, which ones will allow him to bend space, which ones will bend him. It wasn’t always so in the beginning. Shadow travel started as a gimmick, a little trick, a way to hide, to run away. He never once stopped to wonder how he might emerge on the other side, but he’s a man of habits, and with practice, it had become less exhaustive and more precise, and it’s so so easy to run. 

Now, there is nowhere to go, no secret world where he can rest. There is only the deep, where he dare not go, and beyond, where he cannot. He knows, though, that the game is the same. There are only higher stakes.

He’s desperate. They all are. Part of him knows this is a stupid bet to take. The other part knows that despite that, it might be worth more than anything he could dream of. He also knows that there is no one else left to do it because something somewhere went terribly wrong.

With that in mind, Nico, looking down the elevator shaft straight to hell, jumps into the dark. The light leaves quickly, but he can still make out markings flying by on the way down — footholds he knows were once used to claw out of this place.

The jump is far, but twelve minutes is better than nine days, and if he doesn’t die upon landing, which he most likely won’t, he will find an empty and godless land. There will be nothing left. He has made this trip more times than he can now count, and still, it is unpleasant. He tucks and rolls into a crouch onto course sand. It bites into his hands. The air is thick and musky with decay, and he can feel the tendrils of a deep evil embedded in the red grains of the glass sand beneath his feet. 

Leaving the empty shaft behind him, Nico shudders as the atmosphere presses down on him. Tartarus is oppressive, but already it is clearly deserted of activity. His shoes crunch loudly as he walks, and as he continues forward, he leaves a narrow trail imprinted on the skin of the pit. The path before him is familiar, even though the winds erase it after every visit. Even the heat of the place is rising away. 

Soon, or maybe an eternity later, he comes to a fire pit that still smolders. It smokes from the middle of a ruined shrine. Beyond this point is a presence he does not wish to intrude upon. He doesn’t even want to raise his eyes to look into it. It only promises pain. This fire pit is more than sufficient for his needs. He reaches into his pocket and procures a beaded necklace. Its weight, too, is familiar in his palm. Never did he think it would come to this. He clenches the beads, letting it indent his palm as something in his chest hurts with a pain he knows well and will never acclimate to. His heart thuds in his chest. Nico kneels before the fire and waits. 

Though there is no night or day in Tartarus, Nico sits until his body protests, until his knees are certainly straining and legs numb. Only then, he begins to hear it. He hunches by the glowing embers and strains his ears. 

The first time he had heard them, he was sure he was hallucinating. Now, however, he is certain: there is a greater power that hides in the deep, and by now, for better or for worse, he has consulted them many times.

A low hiss of murmurs rushes past him like water. They’re still quiet, but they grow more coherent as they come nearer, and with it, the air grows impossibly colder, both a reprieve from the heat and an unrelenting chill he hates.

 _The Ghost... King_ , they laugh, voices fading in and out, slippery and sharp like ice. _You have consid… offer?_

Nico exhales slowly. He can see his breath. “I have,” he responds. They voices shift around him. “I will do it. But first, you must swear to me that you will fulfill your end of the bargain.” The voices laugh again, and Nico has to force his face to remain unconcerned, his body to not shiver. “Swear on the River Styx.”

 _So we do swear_ , they say, sounding as old as time and yet newborn at the same time, a myriad of voices, deep and thin, resounding and shallow, hysterical and solemn. They make their vow as if Nico has the power to command them of anything. _To a time... the clock has struck, we... will resto... this balance..._

Nico nods. He can’t be certain they will help him in the way he needs. They are all-seeing and have watched him search fruitlessly. It was them who came to him when he called; he also knows, however, that though the way they will fix things is the very reason he fears them, fix things they will, so he steels himself. He has already made up his mind. There will be no turning back from this. “Then let us begin.”

 _You have chosen… a hero…_ they say without surprise, but if they could smile, Nico imagines they would. _You gamble… with death…_

Nico doesn’t listen to their mocking words; it’s true in the end. He looks down at his hands that cradle the necklace, and with no further hesitation, places it in the embers. He did his research before plunging into the deep and summoning powers that have long lay dormant and omnipresent. Before all heavenly bodies were Adrasteia and Ophion, who were untethered, unworshipped, and the foundations of the known world, relics of a dead religion. He says, “I, Nico di Angelo, son of Hades of the fourth order, call upon the aeons to unmake the threads of time. I revoke my rights to rebirth and will wander the earth as your servant bound to the wheels of fate. I am a humble son of the Earth and starry sky, and I ask for a goblet of the Mnemosyne to preserve the one who will restore the balance of night and day.”

The voices surround him. _Now you will die and come into being_ , he hears them say, clearer than ever before. _O thrice fallen, we accept your offering. We send you and your promised back into the grievous circle, and we hold your soul in bondage. Good faith, son of Hades, son of Kronos. We shall meet once more_. It occurs to him then that they might send a little extra back too.

And just as he understands the weight of his decision, there comes a startling, abrupt pain that seizes him. He can feel it pulling him apart, into atoms, into little more than dust. He can feel his soul folding in on itself. There will be no rest for him.

After all, nothing is without sacrifice. 

* * *

ONE: The Stitch

In this dream, Percy stands in Gabe’s filth and misses Paul, who liked old records and silly soap operas and his mother’s sweets. The house is quietly filled with all of Percy’s old horrors. All the stains on the table where cigarettes were stubbed, grooves on the wall where fists had met, beer bottles littered on the linoleum, and a stench so putrid it burns.

Percy picks his way around glass and clothes, feet silent, hands steady, breath shallow. He doesn’t want this in his lungs any more than he wants to be in this apartment. 

It’s a strange dream, peculiar. In spite of the way it rouses an old fear and hatred in him, something in him also settles. He knows though, that this is either a dream or an illusion because it is quiet in a way he hasn’t known in a long, long time.

And then he hears it, a softly lilting voice. It’s familiar, but he can’t name who it is. It’s also not in a language he knows. Not Greek or Latin, but it’s definitely a romance language, like Spanish or Portuguese. Italian, maybe? He’s not sure. It calls to him regardless. 

He passes through the kitchen so he can hear it a little better. It is not an accomplished singer, yet somehow, it is both haunting and beautiful at the same time. It’s sad. Percy knows that much.

When he reaches the window sill, the singing ends, and there sits a simple-looking chalice in front of him.

Now, in spite of what others may think, Percy’s not an idiot. He knows not to listen to strange songs, much less follow them. He knows he shouldn’t drink from strange glasses, even in dreams. He studies the goblet. It’s carved from wood and polished over. The liquid looks calm, harmless almost, if not for the way it resists Percy’s control and is intimately familiar. This is water with power if it’s water at all. 

Percy looks up, out the window. There is nothing, but in the dream, it is not surprising. He blinks, and then there is a boy he knows, and Percy can _feel_ him. His blood beats to an old rhythm Percy knows from a half-remembered haze. It’s more than a rhythm; it’s not quite a song. They look at each other through the glass. Percy wonders if the other can sense him in his veins.

“Do you trust me?” asks the boy through the glass, and even though his voice should be muffled, it isn’t. Percy can hear him as clearly as if he spoke right into his face.

“Yes,” answers Percy, because he does. “But if you want me to drink, then so must you.”

The boy looks as if he has expected this, and Percy thinks he can see a small smile through the smudges. “Then open the window.”

“It doesn’t open,” Percy says. It’s the window that was always stuck after Gabe slammed it shut.

“Try it,” urges the boy, so Percy unlocks the hinge and opens the window with unexpected ease. Unencumbered by the dirty glass, Percy looks at the boy in front of him. “The cup,” he reminds after Percy has spent some time looking at his nameless and familiar face.

So Percy lowers his hand and passes him the cup, watching carefully as the boy swallows. Nothing seems to change, except for a shudder that runs through him. The boy says something to him that Percy barely catches as he takes the cup back and drains the rest. It doesn’t make sense until the liquid hits his tongue.

Suddenly, Percy knows. _Percy, go to the Wolf House_. He lowers the cup and looks out the window, only for no one to be there. His heart beats rapidly, and gravity moves around him. He falls backward and rejects the jump in his stomach. Like surfacing from being drowned, Percy burns into awareness. He gasps, sitting upright on a cot, sore in more ways than one. Foggily, he forces himself to focus, but the dream slips from him like silk. He doesn’t bother reaching for it, consumed now with other thoughts that come to him in this order:

One: he had been very, very, very dead.

Two: he is now undisputably not dead at all, and his body, though in pain, is different. In many ways, he hasn’t felt this good in years. 

And three: he isn’t alone.

Percy turns to see a girl who had once cursed him. Maybe she already has. He’s not sure. What he does know is that though he is physically unharmed, he pains upon seeing her shining face.

Calypso had reared back in shock at his violent awakening, but now she holds out her hand gently to him. “Perseus,” she sighs, full of happiness and contentment. “You’ve returned to me.”

She places her hand on his arm, but Percy doesn’t relax into her. He doesn’t mean to unnerve her. His silence and stiffness convince her to remove her hand anyway. “Did you not expect me to?” he responds a little too late, a little too unkindly, even though he knows this is a chance for his redemption, and he expects to take advantage of it to the fullest.

She frowns. “You came floating to the shore,” she says instead, slow like not to startle a beast. “You looked almost as if you were asleep.”

Percy rubs his temples. “Have I left you here long?” He means to ask many different things, but this is the one way he won’t implicate himself.

She sighs. “Time is strange here. I do not know how long it has been, but no other has come to me since you were here last.” 

As far as Percy’s aware, there’s no reliable way to tell when he is. His forearms aren’t tattooed, so he knows he has yet to meet the Romans. Percy is supposed to wake up at the Wolf House in April of 2010. Without memories, he might add, but now he knows his past and more. He thinks hard and can see no other option than to continue forward from here. Hopefully, when he sees her next, Annabeth will remember too. For now, knowing there is much more at stake, he keeps his mouth closed. The future is a tricky business, and he can’t afford a misstep. The world can’t. He wonders what Annabeth would do. 

“Are you… alright?” Calypso asks warily, laying a soft hand on his back. Percy turns to study her. “Hermes came with a message a little while ago to say that the gods made a vow. A vow to offer amnesty. You made them promise.”

“And Hermes just upped and left after he told you,” Percy says slowly, mind turning like a rusted machine with ill-fitting gears. 

“I am to understand that I am difficult to trust in these times,” she replies, to which Percy grimaces. 

“I mean, yeah, your decision to support Atlas sucked—” Calypso’s face twitches ever so slightly but Percy continues, “but it’s not like the gods are any better.” Then his brain catches up to his mouth. “Wait, can they hear us?”

“I’m sure they could if they wished,” she acknowledges, probably more than confused at where all this conversation is going, but Percy makes sure to remember that the wind can carry, even if the gods are predisposed. “What are you going to do now?”

 _Percy, go to the Wolf House_. Well, it seems as if Percy has a schedule to get to in California, and more than a couple calls to make, but first, Percy turns to fully face her and says very seriously, “We’re getting off this godforsaken island.”

  
  


Without any clue as to how the passage of time flows on Ogygia, Percy knows that leaving sooner rather than later is crucial. The endless days and nights give him more than enough time to think. 

Calypso is wary of him. It’s smart of her. She clearly longs for closeness, but Percy knows he’s giving off bad vibes. That first day, he avoids her, saying he would find supplies to build them a ride out of here. Eager to help, she lets him and sets off to gather supplies for their journey. Percy walks the beach, tasting the salt in the air, relishing the wind on his face, the sun on his skin. He stands in the sea and lets it replenish him. He misses Annabeth. When night falls, he has to collect himself, and they reconvene for dinner. Calypso has gathered suitable wood and tools. 

“Will it let us leave?” she asks.

“The ocean listens to me,” Percy explains. “It won’t leave you behind.” After all, the gods swore to him. The way she looks at him with pure hope makes something ugly sit in his stomach. He vows not to fail her, Nico, Bob, Damasen, the rest of the seven — and countless others. When she turns in for bed, Percy waits for the stars. He relaxes for what feels like the first time in a thousand years. “Bob says hello.” He lets the words fall from his lips, and it’s swallowed up in the vast sky. And then, he collapses and cries.

In the mornings, Percy rises at dawn after restless sleep and runs around the island perimeter. The afternoons find them busy building a sturdy boat. The wood Calypso provides is light and pliable, and despite the fact he’s never built a boat before, his instincts have them map out a pretty secure frame. In the evenings, they dine together and garden in the still night. As they settle in their respective cots, Calypso teaches him what the drying herbs on the cave ceiling are, and Percy listens. Aconite, windflower, withy, elm wych, everlasting flower, fig, hellebore, lotus, moly, and even careful slices of sweet pear. She weaves stories of their myths and uses, and Percy wonders what sort of herbs could trick a goddess.

On the third night of his stay, Calypso leads him to the moonlace patch. “You are troubled,” she says, and he realizes that even though he sort of scares her, she is still fond of him.

Instead of responding, Percy touches the petals of a close flower. “In Manhattan, my mom is taking care of the one you gave me.” She watches him, something sweet on her face. “Last time I visited home, it was there, catching moonlight.”

They stay quiet as they survey the garden. “The boat will be done tomorrow by the evening sun,” Calypso observes. It needs no response. As they watch the invisible servants carry lanterns down to the beach, she speaks again. “You’re different now, hero.”

Percy nods. “I think I am too.”

She grins at him, hair curling beautifully in the wind. “Don’t say it like that,” she says. “I think it’s a good thing.” She puts a hand on his arm, squeezes once, and retreats to the cave for sleep. Percy can’t help but think that she has too, though maybe it’s because he feels older now, and so does she.

When he sleeps again, he is back in the apartment, only this time, it isn’t overturned with Gabe’s mess. It’s home, with the soft blankets and the photos on the wall and the records on the shelf. Percy waits, but he doesn’t hear the song nor see the boy from the window, who he is more and more sure he knows. On the very same window sill, the pot of moonlace turns towards the night. One day, he thinks, he will be able to forgive Calypso. Maybe he already has.

Percy wakes with the rising tides early the next morning. Calypso is already awake. As part-nymph, part-goddess, Percy figures she needs less sleep than he does. She greets him with a grapefruit half after he washes his face in the spring. They sit in the garden to eat. 

“Before we leave,” Percy professes, “I need your help.”

Seriously, she sets her grapefruit half aside. “What can I do?”

“I need to know if I can trust you,” he says honestly, and to her credit, she doesn’t look offended. “And I don’t know who might be listening either.” She waits patiently as he figures out how to say what he needs to. “There’s… war brewing,” he starts, and already this knowledge seems inevitably dangerous. “I’m about to get involved with someone who can control my… my memories. I’m sort of surprised nothing wrong has happened yet. I need something that will trick someone as powerful as a goddess into thinking she’s got me.”

Calypso thinks, toying with the hem of her dress. “For the sake of both of our safeties, I won’t ask further,” she allows. “I cannot promise you perfect results, but I think… I think I have something that may suit your needs.” She disappears into the cave and returns a few minutes later with a bundle of dried herbs and an uncut stone. Percy can make out white bulbous flowers like drops of snow hanging off a black root. Moly, he reminds himself. 

Calypso counts out nine strands and begins to weave them together. Percy thinks it almost looks like a friendship bracelet. 

“I told you about moly,” she says to him. “Tell me what you remember.”

“Back in the day, Hermes gave it to Odysseus to prevent him from falling into Circe’s magic. It can’t be picked by a mortal and can offer invulnerability.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “Good. It also grows from the blood of the giant Picolous, who has long been dead, even before I was cursed to my stay here. To eat a fresh blossom will kill you, but its essence can provide protection from enchantment. When dried and worn, I hope that it will shield your mind from intrusion and other external forces.” It sounds too good to be true.

“Why nine?” he asks. 

“Nine is a sacred number,” she explains as her hands move quickly. “The River Styx flows in nine twists. There are nine layers of the universe. It takes nine days to fall from heaven to earth, and nine more from earth to hell. It is, coincidentally, relevant to the passage of time.”

“A stitch in time saves nine,” Percy proposes. 

Calypso grimaces. “I suppose that may be true, but I refer to the repetition of threes. The rule of thirds binds together and balances harmony. It’s lucky, not foolproof,” she warns. “There is only so much I can do. You may not want to outright lie, but it will shield your mind from those who aren’t looking too closely. The opal should help with this.” She inserts the stone into the weave. “Its power is to guard and preserve.”

“That’s the best I can hope for. Thank you, really.” The weave is simple but secure. It holds the stone in a way that is both functional and beautiful.

She smiles at him. “Of course.” She fastens it to him like an armlet, tight around his bicep. It’ll most likely be hidden even by short-sleeved shirts if he’s careful. It’s only now that he realizes she also has entwined herbs and flowers into her hair. Purple calamint blooms, mulberry vines, and thyme, for easing heartache, fostering love, and giving courage. It makes him sad.

“Well,” he tells her with a grin, “I suppose it always helps to have a goddess on your side.”

Her smile fades as she gazes out at their boat. “You still do not return my affections,” she says softly and without malice. She turns back to him. “And you have a quest to embark upon, so we cannot stay in each other’s company.” She speaks matter-of-factly, and Percy is glad for it.

“There’s a wide world out there,” he promises her. “You’ll be very glad to be rid of me.”

“Your love knows no bounds,” she returns, but she smiles again lightly. “The one who holds your heart is very lucky indeed.” Then she stands and offers him her hand. Together, they walk down to the beach. 

The boat is finished. It’s nothing fancy and will suit their needs just fine. It spans eight feet in length and has two benches trisecting it. There are packs of food stored beneath them, but no other provisions.

“There’s nothing else you need?” he asks, a little confused. On this island, she has endless food and clothes. He can see she only brings them enough meals to last a few days and the clothes she wears. 

“I have everything I need,” she insists. “I have no desire for anything more of this place.” Calypso sits on the bench, the wind catching her hair. “You have a plan after this,” she says to him as he uses the sea to unmoor the boat.

“Yes.”

“Will you stay safe?”

“I will do my best to stay alive.”

And she nods. “Well, hero, let us depart.” With that, on the fourth morning, the boat moves away from the shore, and under Percy’s guidance, the island of Ogygia fades into the far distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i was inspired to return to this series in light of the announcement of the new tv series! let's hope it doesn't suck lol. i also wanted to write something that does justice to the strength of percy and annabeth. heroes of olympus frustrated me in that regard, and i'm not even going to go into the following series. calypso is a minor character so i didn't tag her.
> 
> this takes place in a world where something more sinister awakens, causing the death of the world as we know it, and it starts while our favorite duo is in the recesses of tartarus. we know after this chapter that nico basically sells his soul to fix this. this is after percy and annabeth fall into tartarus, but the plot diverges from there, as you will soon see. the prologue happens after nico turns seventeen, so a few years have passed.
> 
> hope you all enjoy!


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